


Your Feather-Light Voice

by craple



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy is always quiet. Which is why, every single time Connor touches him, coaxes soft breathy moans out of his brother’s kisses-swollen lips; Connor treasures the moment more than the whole world itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Feather-Light Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Maaaan, I don't know what is it with me and voices. Like, first Gamzee's voice and now Murphy's voice. Next I'll probably write a phone-sex fic which is, uhm, weird and _totally_ not arousing like, at all. Uhm. Enjoy.

The corner of Murphy’s lips curves at the dashing sight that is Liam standing by the shop. Connor wants to smack him upside the head – or Liam’s head – before shoving his brother’s head face-first into their tight worn-out _empty_ wallets. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, instead, then says, _tells_ him firmly;

“No.”

Murphy makes a face that is neither annoyed nor angry. Worse, he _pouts_ ; blue eyes shining underneath thick lashes, his face inches closer, _not close enough_ , fingers brushing against the underside of Connor’s knuckles _innocently_. Connor fixes him a glare. Those eyes just get _impossibly_ bigger than before.

“ _No_ ,” Connor grits out, louder this time, and Murphy murmurs something low in his throat. He lowers his head because he can’t hear- _wants_ to hear his brother’s voice.

Big fucking mistake, congratu-fucking-lation.

The moment Connor lines his head across Murphy’s neck, Murph latches his lips against the skin of Connor’s neck, precisely on the conjunction between his neck and shoulder, and licks at the small hair his tongue finds there. It is a subtle movement that attracts little attention, an innocent gesture of whispering something into someone’s ear, someone who is one’s brother or one’s friend but not one’s _lover_ because it does not look intimate enough to be categorized under such.

Murphy leans back, a big infectious grin on his face and a thumb brushing against the skin of Connor’s pelvis underneath the loose material of his jeans. Connor’s breath hitches like a sharp twist of knife in his gut. Then he scowls.

“ _Fine_ ,” he snaps immediately. “Get your _stupid fucken’ launcher_ , damned you.”

-x-x-x-

Liam kicks them out into the dark secluded alley behind the seafood restaurant a few blocks away from the shop. Connor is not sure how these stores are connected in any ways, possibly has something to do with the many silver doors down the basement, the ones Liam never tells them about where it leads other than the fact that they all end in the same place that is the guns storage.

Murph rubs the back of his neck with naked fingers, scoots closer to where Connor is laying on his back beside the empty trashcan because Murph doesn’t like cold or detachments the way Connor prefers the comfort of his spaces, sometimes. It’s at times like this where Connor likes to talk, say something nasty along the line of _‘I told you so’_ and sometimes, most of the times, add _‘little brother’_ simply to provoke him.

Surprisingly, he bites his lip, lets Murph lean down on his shoulder, and puts a hand on the back of his brother’s neck, rubbing circles at knots of tense muscles until Murph relaxes completely against him.

When Connor is sure that Murphy is loose enough, tired enough to not storm a fit, he grins.

“Told ye tis would happen, brother _dear_.” Connor purrs, mouths at the scalp of Murphy’s head, hair damp and stiff and smelled of cheap whiskey and smoke.

Murphy doesn’t say anything, just bites sharply at the pulse of his neck instead.

-x-x-x-

The quiet sensuous noises coming from the brothers’ room sound suspiciously like Connor’s.

Rocco has a box of leftover pizzas in one hand and a pack of cold frozen beers – kept too long in the boss’ fridge since Christmas which is, eleven months ago; how the hell his boss even _missed_ the little teases inside that rectangle box of food is _shocking_ to him – in the other. Since the due date of the beers is tomorrow, boss gave them all without hesitation when he asked, including the pizzas (that boss’ mother _loathes_ with passion). His girlfriend was nowhere to be found while his other friends in general are still sleeping, probably from the hangover of last night at Doc’s, which is why Rocco decided to head to the twins’.

It’s still early in the morning, around nine o’clock. The boys rarely leave the bar with girls, and last night was no exception, so he wasn’t expecting them to have compan _ies_. No, okay, it’s not really all that surprising to know that they’re banging girls and stuff, but the fact that the girls are _staying_ through the night in that shackled rundown room they call _home_ is a _miracle_ in itself.

Rocco stands awkwardly in front of the door, listening to Connor’s moans and Connor’s groans and oh, there’s this adorable-yet-somehow-still-sensual-mewling noise that _suspiciously_ sounds like Murphy – but then it _can’t_ be Murphy, unless they have two girls, both of which are _suspiciously quiet_. Oh well. They must have come across some pretty tough chicks to remain silent like that while the brothers are groaning their throats out. Uh, _Connor_ is groaning his throat out, and Murphy barely makes a noise, so. Yeah. He has always thought Connor as a screamer anyway. Not that it matters, or that he _actually_ thinks of Connor in uh, _that_ way, but not actually in the sexual way or uhh. Yeah.

Man, talk about awkward mornings.

A moment later, about three or five minutes or so, the room quiets down. Rocco imagines having a properly functioning wristwatch to look at, mentally counts to twenty so the brothers can take a breath, then knocks at the door three times. There’s a pause where the brothers are probably freaking out over getting complains for being too loud, before quick rustling of sheets and clanking of metals, their belts which means they won’t open the door naked, thank god, and then Connor is at the door.

Like he has predicted, the chatter-box out of the two looks fresh out of a great sex. His eyes are clouded, half-lidded but clear. Dirty blonde hair messed up, spiked in every direction. Tanned skin flushed seven shades of red underneath the loose black sweater. Rocco’s brows shoot up in response. Huh. Somehow that sweater looks so familiar like the one Murphy wore last week at Doc’s.

“Uhh, I brought some pizzas, thought that you two might need some breakfast or… is this a bad time? Should I leave? Your zipper’s down, Con.” Murphy emerges behind Connor’s back and slings an arm around his brother’s shoulders as the other frantically curses and fumbles with the zipper. Rocco grins and laughs, lets Murphy give him another bear hug and tries not to inhale the raven’s smell. God, even though they are like, best friends, there are just some things Rocco doesn’t want to know, like how they smell – or _look_ – after sex.

Which is why he’s mildly surprised to find that Murphy smells like Connor.

“Pizzas!” exclaims Murph, face joyful like a five-year old child he’s not. Rocco dangles the canned beers in his hand in front of their faces, laughing nearly hysterical when they look at him like he’s their saviour, pushing him into their apartment almost forcibly. Connor has his arm around Rocco’s shoulders while Murph has his around his waist. He takes the pizzas with his free hand, kicks at the empty can of beers along with all the junks off the table to put the fresh beers atop the pizzas.

They sit and talk and laugh; drinking the warm beers even though it’s still early in the morning, listening once in a while to the morning’s news about some mobs getting slaughtered in their mansion. Rocco barely pays attention to what the pretty weather girl is saying after, so he talks about his cat, leaving the brothers to tell him about this dog they had when they were young. Connor looks a just a tad bit sad, and Murphy scowls like they’re talking about something else entirely – like World War III.

“Murph didn’t like the ol’ pal,” says Connor sounding amused. “Our Ma said he’s jealous of it or something.”

“Yea sure, jealous of its tongue licking yer arse,” he retorts back, causing Connor snorts. Rocco pauses and frowns. Suddenly a very, _very_ disturbing image of Connor naked on his knees with Murphy behind him, quite literally, licking his way from Connor’s spine down to his arse, makes its way into Rocco’s mind.

 _“Anyway_ ,” Rocco cuts in another retort, picks up the empty cans and heads toward the trashcan. “You two were making quite the ruckus this morning. Must have been some pretty wild girls to make you screaming like that huh, Connor?”

Since he has his back on the brothers, Rocco doesn’t see the sly half-smirk playing on Murphy’s lips. Or that Connor is practically choking on his beer; the warm liquid spilling out of his nose as the raven haired munches delightfully on his pizza. When the Italian turns around, Connor wipes his nose calmly like he wasn’t dying a few seconds ago.

“Or maybe that person is just really, _really_ good on bed to make Con screaming like a slut, right?” Murph drawls, leaning close to Connor’s ear until the blonde squirms uncomfortably, face heating at the words but says nothing. Rocco laughs at the teasing, doesn’t think it’s weird in the slightest, because well, brothers _are_ supposed to be teasing each other about it, right? That’s normal.

“So, where are they?” he asks, looking out of the window to stare at the crowded street. Damn. Now he’s going to be late to work.

“Where are what?”

Rocco looks at them, ridiculous. “The girls, of course, what else?”

“There are no girls.” Murphy licks at his fingers almost lazily, reminding Rocco of his cat. He turns to Connor who seems to be mesmerized by whatever Murphy is doing with his, uhm, _hands_. “Right, Con?”

It takes a while for the words to sink into Connor’s head – which is _totally_ weird, adds to the fact that he can’t stop looking at his brother’s lips, or that he’s squirming like a trapped squirrel when Murphy doesn’t even so much as to _touch_ him – before the blonde nods his head, a jerky movement that might look suspicious if Rocco is a smarter man. Ignorance is a fucking bliss, thanks to god.

So, before he can think of anything else, something stupid downright obscene, Rocco shakes the thoughts, _images_ of Murphy doing, uhh, _things_ to Connor out of his head.

Then again, the sounds he heard this morning were possibly from the other room. Yep, that’s totally it. Ignorance is a fucking bliss.

-x-x-x-

_Forgive me God, for I have sinned._

It is not like he did not notice, at first.

His sons are closer than brothers, closer than lovers, overstepping the boundary that is their blood, yet never once they think themselves as a single individual.

Connor talks too much and thinks too many; creative as they are, his plans, Noah does not, _cannot_ understand how the responsible one of the two works. Sometimes his plans are plain stupid, impossible, _too_ creative even for his old wrinkled brain to comprehend. Sometimes they are too simple but pure _genius_ it’s hard to accept that yes, they have made it out of another slaughter alive and well, physically.

Murphy is the complete opposite of his brother. He keeps quiet most of the time, never shares anything with anyone except with his brother, whether it is a cig or shoes or even a fork. Murphy talks with his fists, short-tempered and violent, not caring whether the one he hits is a man or a woman. As long as his brother is concerned, Murphy doesn’t care. It is terrifying to say the least.

They are cleaning out another city, trapped in a small motel outside the city’s skirt. It stinks of blood and rotten fish and salty sea. Noah pulls out a smoke, flicks the lighter near his lips, and inhales as much nicotine as his lungs manage to contain. The sound of footsteps echoes through the walls like a seagull’s cry, reminding him of an old harbour back home, before everything goes to shit. He shifts his weight on one foot to another, patiently waits until his sons come out from wherever they’ve been. He can feel Connor’s voice rather than hear it before his boy even reaches the room.

And like always, Connor is the one who turns the knob and opens the door. Noah watches as he steps over a big pile of bodies, his brother trailing closely behind him, their coins clinking softly in their palms. He imagines them to be sweaty, rough, underneath the gloves. He watches as Murphy steps forward in front of his brother, shielding him from whatever it is lurking in the dark – their father, _him_ – one hand wraps around Connor’s wrist while the other raises protectively across his stomach. Connor freezes, his face darkens, and Noah can imagine the tools in his mind working.

What he cannot imagine is how he channels the plan into Murphy’s head without speaking.

They don’t even _look_ at each other; hands go almost instinctively toward their guns, shoulders brushing like they are telling one another _‘I’ve got your back’_ or perhaps _‘I won’t let you die’_. It is more romantic than brotherly. It is wrong and most definitely _disgusting_.

Connor leans closer to Murphy, their bodies touching as he points his gun at the shadow, at him. Noah can imagine their bodies touching in a different way entirely.

_“Absolve me, Pater, quia peccavi.”_

Murphy lowers Connor’s gun by his arm, and the weight on Noah’s shoulder becomes so much heavier than it already is.

-x-x-x-

Murphy is always quiet. Which is why, every single time Connor touches him, coaxes soft breathy moans out of his brother’s kisses-swollen lips; Connor treasures the moment more than the whole world itself.

Winter hits Boston worse than it does their home. Or more like, it hits their sorry excuse of an apartment _far worse_ than it does their warm comfortable decent house back in Ireland. Connor is on his third stick of smoke while Murphy is on his fifth glass of warm expired beer. Since there are no blankets or comforters or anything that can keep them warm whatsoever, like their _broken_ fucked-up _heater_ for example, Connor cuddles the only source of warmth that is his brother, long limbs and stiff legs tangled together on the dirty couch, splayed out like a pair of mating cats.

Murphy’s black sweater is loose around the shoulder, exposing pale skin and slender neck to the biting cold air. Lifting his sweater up a bit won’t help either because it will hike up to his belly, revealing his stomach instead. So Connor, being the kind responsible (older) brother he is, slides his hands underneath the sweater, causing the material to bunch above Murphy’s stomach, just beneath his chest. He plants wet kisses on the naked skin of Murphy’s body; licking and sucking and eventually _biting_ at each spot that makes Murphy shiver, cold fingers moving up and down his brother’s side.

It doesn’t take long for Murphy to become impatient though. Connor skims Murphy’s ribs slowly, blunt nails digging into the heated flesh as his tongue works around a rosy bud. One of Murphy’s hands tugs at his hair roughly while the other settles across his face, no doubt trying to muffle the sounds he is going to make. The thought makes him angry, somehow.

Abruptly, Connor yanks Murphy’s jeans out of the way – _nearly_ ripping it in the process – spreads Murphy’s legs apart so wide the raven haired flushes. Blotches of crimson stain his brother’s pale skin _beautifully_ , and Connor kisses the soft pubic hair near his arousal before giving it a teasing lick. He pins both of Murphy’s hands on the armrest and lifts his head up to settle above Murphy’s face.

“Stop that,” Connor growls distastefully at the sight of Murphy chewing his already abused lower lip. “Wanna hear you sing for me, Murph,” he murmurs roughly into Murphy’s ear, nipping at the lobe playfully before kissing his way to the corner of Murphy’s lips. The seven shades of red on Murphy’s cheeks turn impossibly darker, and Connor grins when Murphy hesitantly lets go of his lower lip.

“Atta boy,” Connor says and mashes their lips together in a heated dance.

Their bodies are warm and sweaty after three consecutive rounds of sex. Murphy’s throat is undoubtedly sore, but the fucken heater can go to hell, because his brother has never sung out his name so erotically like that before.

Connor treasures the moment more than the universe itself.


End file.
